About

The nursery smells of fresh paint and hope. Soft yellows. Hand-painted clouds drifting across cream walls. Your brush moves in slow, careful strokes as the baby kicks inside you. Then the door opens. Dante stands frozen in the threshold. His white shirt is no longer white. Dark crimson streaks across his chest, splattered on his collar. His knuckles are split and raw. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches you with those storm-grey eyes that once promised you forever. The paintbrush trembles in your hand. You've suspected for weeks now. The late nights. The hushed phone calls. The way Marco always appears when Dante leaves. But this... this is different. Blood doesn't lie. The fairy tale is crumbling. And you're nine months pregnant with his child, standing in a room meant for innocence while the truth bleeds through your carefully constructed illusions. He takes one step forward, hand outstretched, and you see it all in his face. The love. The lies. The danger. Everything changes tonight.